


Hellfire

by Brosca-Pride (Fan_by_Proxy)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Meredith as Frollo basically, Predatory lesbian trope, allusions to non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_by_Proxy/pseuds/Brosca-Pride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would not be surprising at all to find out that the Knight-Commander took a number of advantages of her position, to include the regular and unlawful seduction of sisters of the Circle's inhabitants.  However, in the case of one Ferelden refugee (you know the one), this did not play out as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Off with His Head!

     “It would seem,” Meredith announced with all the excitement of an Orlesian receiving an order of last year’s shoes, “we have a new Champion.”

     The crowd started to clap—slow at first, like they couldn’t figure out how to celebrate being alive—but it wasn’t long before they were stomping their feet and hooting properly.

     Hawke leaned on Fenris, arm around his shoulders and as casual as a girl could be with half her life’s blood eking out under her cinch.  She smirked, most assured that the victory wasn’t just over the ox-head but over the Knight-Commander’s bony grip on Kirkwall’s political scene.  “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Hanged Man.  Drinks are on anyone who _didn’t_ just stop a Qunari riot.”

     It was a good thing the Knight-Commander was firmly belted into her armor, or else the survivors would’ve been privy to a woman shitting actual bricks—

* * *

 

     “ _Bullshit_!” Cassandra bellows, banging her fist on the table.  “The Champion did not just saunter to a tavern after such a duel.” She insists.

     Varric grins.  “Do I detect a note of hero-worship Seeker?”

     “ _No_ ,” Cassandra says petulantly, “but how can you _not_ admire a woman who took on their Arishok in single hand-to-hand combat?  It’s so _romantic…_ ”  She shakes her head sharply.  “But you cannot convince me that Hawke did anything less than seek out the nearest healer after that.  It only makes sense.”

     “You’re forgetting Seeker, Hawke’s a mage too.” He replies glibly.  Better to make a joke of it, hide the truth under some heroics and a quip.  Varric doesn’t want to think about that night; of the Knight-Commander’s rage and Hawke’s blood

> _red, too red, that shade of red doesn’t exist but it poured out of her like ale from a broken cask_
> 
> _varric varric she's fainting get the damn door open!_
> 
> _hawke don't die don't die hawke don't die please!_
> 
> _if you aren't a healer or a helper get out of the room!_

     He doesn’t want to think of Anders going all blue trying to save her, of long weeks fielding invitations and requests for Hawke’s presence with more and more outlandish tales.

> _is she_
> 
> _we won't know for a while_
> 
> _the bleeding's stopped though, hasn't it?_
> 
> _it's not just the blood, it's blood and lyrium and illness now_
> 
> _she has to live, Kirkwall's shit otherwise_
> 
> _she has to rest or else she has no chance_
> 
> _tell'em she's off on a pirate ship, wenching and the like_
> 
> _can-do, she'll have a ripping time on the coast_
> 
> _well if she's doing that, shouldn't she be taming dragons?_
> 
> _she'll ride a pair of them into Kirkwall in a few weeks_
> 
> _this is foolish, we should tell the truth!_
> 
> _what good does the truth do us pretty boy?_

     Better to tell the truth mixed up with an outright lie than think of any of that.

     “This…is true.” Cassandra admits begrudgingly. 

     “So can I go on?” he asks, playing for more time.  The longer he talks, the longer the Seeker and her forces are occupied.  The longer they’re occupied, the longer Daisy and Hawke have to get the hell out of their way.

     Cassandra sighs, rolling her eyes.  “ _Yes_ , but perhaps with a little less embellishment?”

     Varric snorts.  “Seeker, it’s like you don’t even know me!”

 


	2. Stuck Abed

     “Got another note from the Knight-Commander, Hawke.” Varric held up the thick vellum, wax seal already picked off.  “Hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty.”

     Hawke snorted.  “You always do.  What’s she on about this time?”

     “She’s very insistent.” Merrill said, blowing in the general direction of the spoon.  It didn’t do much to cool the steaming soup within, but it was the thought that counted.  And she wasn’t as bad to drop it down the front of Hawke’s shirt as Hawke herself was.

     “The usual.  ‘Blah-blah-blah you’re a Champion’ blah-blah-blah ‘you have duties to uphold’ blah-blah-blah bullshit.” Varric laid the vellum on the bed, smoothing it.  “She’s got good taste in paper though.  You mind if I salvage the back?”

     “Have at.” Hawke said, waving her hand carelessly.  “Merrill, I _can_ feed myself at this point, I bet.”  Anders had been by earlier, wan and fretful as ever, but even he had agreed that there was less chance of her splitting apart like an old doll with poor seams. 

     “Anders said you’re not to strain, and this is a cream soup.” Merrill replied with the wide smile that was impossible to argue with.

     Hawke shook her head with a smile.  “Alright, you win.” She opened her mouth obediently.

     Varric smirked.  “I couldn’t write this crap.  Too mushy, not enough dirt.”

     “Why would you want dirt in the bed?  I mean I have dirt in my bed, but that’s a bit hard to get around in the Alienage.” Merrill replied.

     “It’s a dwarf thing.” Hawke avoided the answer with the usual tactic; after all, saying ‘it’s a dwarf thing’ never garnered any further arguments.  “Would you draft one of those ever-so-clever-but-definitively-rude responses for me?  If I put ink to paper, all it’s going to be is a drawing of a butt.  _Possibly_ with a lip print on it.”

     Varric doubled over with laughter, left with a searing stitch in his side after several minutes.  “I’ll draft it, but _you_ just _have_ to sign it with that.”

     “Deal.” She replied with a rakish grin.  “Might even transfigure myself to be a fly so I can hang around her office just to see her reaction.”

     “Oh I wouldn’t do that Hawke.  She’s very swatty, and it’s not very heroic of a Champion to be squished to death.”  Merrill said, wide-eyed and serious, spoon in hand.

     “Yes dear.” Hawke opened her mouth obediently.

     He rolled his eyes again.  It was a slow dance those two were doing, something that’d take pages and pages to write out as it was going.  Very few readers liked that kind of slow burn.  Varric was willing to bet when the pair _finally_ got over whatever hesitations were in the way, it’d be something filthy and sweet enough to make a Chantry Mother blush.  Or it would be, when he got around to writing it down.

     But in the meantime, it was time to sit at Hawke’s desk and draft something clever and polite and as un-Hawke as possible.  Merrill started to hum as she spooned more soup into a half-hearted protest; a crash from downstairs and a fretful reassurance from Bohdan cemented the utter banality of the afternoon.  Hawke wound up not signing the refusal to appear in the Gallows with a freshly powdered butt; as much as she enjoyed flouting both strength and privilege in the Knight-Commander’s face, there were still some lines she couldn’t cross.  Sister-shaped lines that weren’t going to be swept away for anything less than the end of the world.


	3. Strolling in the Gallows One Day

     All wounds close eventually, and as nice as it was to be tended at home, the world wasn’t going to let Hawke rest on her laurels for long.  Things in Kirkwall were getting uglier; Tranquil were starting to outnumber the stalls around the Gallows and every other day there was a fresh plea for help that she couldn’t turn away.  And always, _always_ the hope of catching a glimpse of Bethany somewhere about.  The Gallows were getting to be a regular stop on their outings, dangerous as it was to be around that space.  Anders, with his little blue problem, didn’t go that far anymore.  There had been some ugly words between him and Hawke and it seemed like an apology hadn’t yet been satisfactorily made.  The choir boy was sometimes with them when he wasn’t busy polishing Andraste’s toes; for all his flaws, he kept as much of an eye out for Bethany as Hawke did.  That was his only saving grace so far.

     “Varric?” 

     “Yeah Daisy?” He looked up from the list of favors Templar Noodle-brain would owe by the time Hawke was done with the details.  Varric had just gotten to the part about virginities and borne children when Merrill had piped up.

     “I think—though I’m probably wrong, I’m usually wrong about these things you know—

     “ _Daisy_.” He cut in before her meandering apology could get any more speed.

     “Yes, sorry.  I was only saying…I think Hawke doesn’t like him very much.” Merrill toyed with a loose pebble, following its crooked path with a toe.  “I think he says some unkind things to her.”

     “He probably does.”  Varric replied.  “I mean we’re talking about Mr-the-Maker-gives-us-divine-right-over-you-mages-blah-blah-bullshit.”

     “Hm.” The noise was low and short, a surprisingly discontented sound from Daisy.  “He shouldn’t show such poor manners to Hawke when she’s so kind to help him by pretty much doing his job for him.”

 _That_ bit of snark was the most surprising, considering the source.  Varric folded away the tallies that would never be met.  “Why Daisy, I think that’s the closest you’ve come to an unkind word since we’ve known each other.”

     “I’m starting not to like the Templars a’tall Varric.  They come to the Alienage too much, for no reason at all.  It upsets the People, and they do such damage.” She replied, anger bringing a mottle to her cheeks.  “Or they did…well they still do, but not as much as they used to.”

     “Hold onto that anger Daisy, we might just need it.” Varric said, hand on her elbow.  The Knight-Commander had tromped into the scene, nearly six-feet of wrath and spite wrapped in too much armor.  She made a beeline for Hawke; it would’ve been funny watching Curly fall back like a good goon, but Meredith’s hand was reaching for Hawke and that was just plain not allowed.

* * *

 

     “So what did she _say_?” Cassandra demands, arms folded across her chest and weight shifting irritably from foot to foot.  She’s engrossed, utterly, and that’s good.

     “Her usual bullshit.” Varric shrugs.  “Watch your back, fall in line, all that.” He’s glib, the answer coming out more irritable than he means to let out.  That’s not what was said, but he can’t tell this Seeker that Hawke threatened Meredith.  Fool woman would take it as proof that Hawke had everything to do with Anders’ boom and all this fast-talking would be for nothing. 

     But that’s another moment he doesn’t want to think about ever again.  The look on Hawke’s face when Meredith leans in; the viciousness in both their smiles and Merrill’s near rush to suicide.  If he hadn’t had her elbow that day—but Varric doesn’t want to think about that.  At all.

     So he tells another lie to entertain the Seeker, and he tries to keep the memory from coming any more into the story.


	4. A Rope Around that Beautiful Neck

     “Why Knight-Commander, what are you doing outside?  Aren’t you afraid the big glowing ball will tempt you to something fun?” Hawke smirks, ignoring the sharpness of the Knight-Commander’s gauntlet as it bites into her shoulder.  She thought the hand inside the glove would be just as bony and sharp and unpleasant to touch.  “We’ve taken to calling it _the sun_ , if you’re at all interested.”

     “Serah Hawke, you incorrigible little girl.” Meredith said low, a viper’s smile playing across her lips.  “Do you enjoy flouting your singular status outside the Circle?”

     “Yes, I rather do.  But today’s not about flouting; it would _seem_ there’s been yet another rash of wild mages about, and your poor freshly-manicured underling here asked for my assistance.  I did the best I could, but alas…they got away.” Hawke lips puckered in a most un-genuine pout

     “ _Such_ an ungracious attitude.” Meredith cooed.  “Especially for an apostate and her band of thugs.”

     “Name-calling Meredith?  Really?  I’m disappointed, you’re usually so clever and pointed in your insults.” Hawke leaned back away from the Knight-Commander, letting her shoulders rest against the stone of the courtyard.  She would affect cold glibness and count on it to hide a growing desire to fly away.  There had been rumors that the Knight-Commander’s interest was growing outside her job description; even the First Enchanter had braved putting the danger into words in a rare note.  She’d scoffed, played it off as a joke, a terrible jest unfit even for one of Varric’s books—but with Meredith’s breath hitting her cheek and her back against a wall, Hawke was forced to admit there might be some very unwanted truths in those warnings.

     The knight-commander’s eyes gleamed.  “Remind me Hawke…your _sister_ is a part of our Circle now, isn't she?" Her smile grew even more poisonous.  "Oh yes, I seem to recall a moon-faced girl with eyes close enough to yours and better manners?  She’s so important to you, I _ache_ to think that some accident might befall her, just because of your glibness and poor choice of allies.”

     “You’re touching very close to the hearth Meredith.  I wouldn’t.” Hawke managed to get out, hating the faintness in her voice.  Fear and anger were waging war on her insides; if the Knight-Commander didn’t back off fast, she’d either get a face-full of spell or a boot-full of vomit.

     “She _is_ in my charge, Serah.  It’s my divine duty to keep her safe from herself.” Meredith replied coolly.  “ _However_ …if you were to make a much more salient performance of your cooperation…I could better guarantee your dear sister’s safety.”  She smiles again, vicious and sharp.  “You suddenly seem so pale my dear.”

     There wasn’t a witty reply to be found anywhere in Hawke’s head; just the ringing of blood in her ears and faint promises that she could boil the Knight-Commander from the inside out with just a little consent.  “Why Meredith, you _fiend_ …” There’s a floating feeling, a sudden disconnect between the situation and her actions.  All she knows is that she is coming away from the wall, leaning into the Knight-Commander’s space, hands sliding up the front of plate to grip curl her fingers over the neckline.  “Let me whisper this to you now, sweet and simple.”

     Meredith raised an eyebrow, expression cold as ever even as her cheeks flamed.  Her hand wandered from Hawke’s shoulder to the small of her back, suddenly possessive of the dip there.

     “If _anything_ happens to my sister—if there is so much a scratch on her forehead, let alone the damned sunburst, I will tear these Gallows down _stone…by…stone_.”  Hawke smiled prettily.  “And when I find you in the rubble—and I _will_ find you in the rubble—I will tear _you_ apart stone by stone.  And no one—not your lackeys, not your Maker—will be able to stop me.”

 

     “I’m going to kill her.  You should let go Varric, I need my elbow to kill her.” Merrill said calmly, even as she watched the kindest person in her life and the source of many of their problems stand steadily closer.

     “Daisy, we’re in the middle of the Gallows in broad daylight.  You’re not killing anybody.”  Varric replied, one hand gripping Merrill’s arm as hard as he could and the other sneaking behind to undo Bianca’s latch.  One move and she’d be ready for a fight.  “Hawke’s just getting in her face, like always.”

     “No one’s allowed to touch Marian like that, not if they’re not friends.” Merrill’s cheeks were ruddier than the Knight-Commanders, spots of purple starting to show underneath the skin.  “You know that Varric, now _let go_.”

     Sometimes words could even fail a writer; no one called ever called Hawke by her first name outside of the family home.  Hell, most of the time they didn’t even use her name _in_ the house.  It was just a thing they all came to agreement on: Hawke was Hawke, and only in the most private, vulnerable moments was she safe to be Marian.  “Daisy—

     Suddenly, the courtyard erupted.  Plated recruits were running back and forth, some toting buckets and sloshing water all over the pavers.  Varric frowned.  “You didn’t do something, did you?”

     “No, not yet.” Merrill replied, just as surprised.

     “It would _seem_ that there was an unfortunate incident involving some dried kindling and an errant bit of ash.” The voice, reedy and rough, was a relief to hear.

     “Andraste’s sixth finger, Blondie!  You couldn’t have done that sooner?” Varric demanded as he pulled Merrill towards the hooded figure. 

     Bloodshot blue eyes rolled.  “Excuse me, I wasn’t expecting to hear a rumor about the Champion of Kirkwall taking the Knight-Commander into an alley and—

     “Do _not_ finish that thought Anders.” Merrill said sharply. 

     He opened his mouth to respond, probably with something vicious if the faint flare of blue light had any input, but Hawke had appeared at Merrill’s side.  “I don’t know which of you three set the fire, but bless you.” She huffed, smiling unnaturally wide.  “Best to be out of here though, before we get the blame.”

     “Right there with ya Hawke.” Varric replied, doing his best to usher Merrill and latch Bianca back in safely at the same time.  “Time for a damn drink.”

     Anders peeled away, disappearing down a dark alley with another cloaked figure halfway to the Hanged Man.  That was just as well; he was starting to make more and more of the regulars nervous and that wasn’t a good sign when you were a possessed Warden with a poor temper.  Varric didn’t pay it much mind; even with Hawke beside her, Merrill was still raring to fight.  It was a weird side to see in her, and one he didn’t like all that much; hopefully enough whiskey would bury it some place deep and he could focus on getting the details from Hawke.


End file.
